Like a Gunshot
by bluecharlotte
Summary: "He's already exhausted from crying; he's not going to start again, not like this. Not right in front of his brother." Sam detoxing at the end of My Bloody Valentine and losing it when he tries to apologize to Dean afterwards.


_And the hardest part_

_was letting go, not taking part_

Sam's shaking so hard he can't see straight, or maybe that's the tears blurring his vision. Because he's also crying harder than he maybe ever has, uncontrollably, pleading for Dean, Cas, anyone to help him, _pleasepleaseplease_, to just make this feeling go away, this thing that's destroying him from the inside out. Each sob rips through him, twists his gut and stings his eyes and it really _really hurts_. He needs it, the demon blood, but he can't have it he knows he can't have it it's _wrong_.

It's wrong and he's wrong and no one is here to help him, to stop the ache, to wipe his tears away. Not now, not anymore.

So he keeps shaking and sobbing and slamming his fists into the walls of the panic room and sweating through his shirt, wanting to crawl out of his skin.

_Ican'tIcan'tIcan'tIcan'tdothisonmyownpleaseletmeout pleaseDeanplease—_

He shuts his eyes and bites down on the remembered taste on his tongue, curls his arms around himself and seizes the remembered feel of Dean's hands holding him together, wishing more than anything in the whole goddamn world that he wasn't so weak.

_I could feel it go down_

_Bittersweet, I could taste in my mouth_

"Sorry." It comes out softer than he'd intended, almost not there at all.

"What?"

"I'm sorry." Sam is leaning all his weight against the hood of the Impala, a mug of tea in his hands. It hasn't helped the headache. Or the emptiness in his chest.

"You're _sorry?_" Dean's voice is tense, hoarse. Sam doesn't want to think about why. "What for? It wasn't your fault, Sam."

He grits his teeth, looking across the sea of cars that is Bobby's backyard. "I should've been stronger."

"No, _no_. You stop this." Dean puts down his beer and reaches out to grab Sam's arm, turning him so they're face-to-face. "Everyone in that town was addicted to something. It got to _everyone_, you couldn't help it! And you didn't drink those demons like Famine wanted you to, did you? You helped us."

"Not you."

"Huh?"

"It didn't get to you, Dean."

"Oh, come on." Dean swallows hard and manipulates his features into a tight smile. "That's just 'cause I'm awesome."

"I heard what Famine—"

"_Sammy_. Can we please just...forget this?" He turns away again, picks his beer back up. Looks out blankly at the junkyard. "You're better now, the...the detox's over. Let's put it behind us. Why should we bother working ourselves up over it?"

_Because inside, you're already dead._

_Oh, and I,_

_I wish that I could work it out._

There's a long, building silence, and it tears at Sam's insides. He stares down at the mug of tea in his hands—the tea Dean made for him when they finally let him out, pressed into his hands without a sound, eyes anxious and wet, though he'd never admit it now—and feels like every mistake he's ever made is staring him in the face. "I'm really sorry, Dean."

_Sorry I drank demon blood. Sorry I let Lucifer out. Sorry you have to deal with me. Sorry I can't help you. Sorry you won't let me._

Dean makes a strange noise, a combination of irritation and exhaustion, and turns to look at him again. "Sam, would you stop—" He cuts himself off when their gazes meet, startled by the bare pleading look in Sam's eyes. "Stop apologizing. Hey." Dean's hand lands heavily on his shoulder, and the solid, familiar weight is more of a comfort than Sam expected. "Everything's fine now. I'm fine, you're fine. We're all _fine_."

Sam shifts a little, leaning into the touch subconsciously. When Dean squeezes once Sam breathes in deep and tries to draw the moment out before his brother pulls his hand away, but Dean doesn't.

Sam's brow furrows, and he looks up and watches Dean closely for a moment, watches him fiddling with the label of his beer with his other hand, his left knee bouncing up and down minutely, jaw tense and twitching like it does when he's worried or (and) needing Sam to _drop it, just drop it already_. It hurts knowing it's his fault, how broken Dean is, and he can only have worsened it with all those hours Dean spent listening to him fall apart. But eventually Sam nods. Picking at the scab won't help anything. He'd only make it worse.

He sags, looks down and away, nodding again, blinking away the sting in his bloodshot eyes. He's already exhausted from crying; he's not going to start again, not like this. Not right in front of his brother.

_Everything I know is wrong_

_Everything I do, it just comes undone_

He presses his hands into the hood of the Impala, trying to keep his breathing even, focusing on the press of Dean's hand on his shoulder to ground himself. He's not alone anymore. Doesn't hurt. No more screwing up. No more shaking. No more—

It rips through him like a gunshot, reality crushing down, the truth that he can't, _can't_, _can'tdothisonmyown—_

He's not sure how or why it happens—he'd been trying to stay quiet, stay still—but a few seconds later his tea has been pulled out of his hands and he has been pulled against Dean's chest, his brother's arms tight around him, his chin pressed into Sam's shoulder, his voice soft in Sam's ear: "Hey. Hey. C'mon Sammy, you're okay."

"_Dean_," he says, voice low and cracking, almost a sob, and he's not even sure what he means to say. Dean just squeezes tighter.

"It's over now. You're okay. We're okay."

He's a little dubious about that, but he knows this is the closest they're going to get. When he pulls away a minute or so later, hurriedly rubbing at his eyes, shame coloring his face pink, Dean doesn't let him move far, stays close enough that their shoulders and hips are touching. Picks up his beer again, sighs as he takes a swig, the cold drink smooth in his throat. Nudges Sam until he relents and picks up his tea again, drinking hesitantly, if only to make Dean feel better.

They stay like that, looking out over the silent wreckage of the junkyard, for a long time.

_And everything is torn apart_

_Yeah, that's the hardest part_


End file.
